Time Calls
by Leuca Serke
Summary: Just a one-shot fic that I actually typed up as an introduction for a roleplay.. I think it stands quite nicely alone, though. A bit of a character study for Lucius Malfoy, you could say.


> "You've failed in the past, Tom.." he murmered in no less than a whisper. "Time calls for it once more."  
  
Clutched in a pale, weathered hand boasting slender fingers was a book of the darkest shade, no larger than a pocket diary.  
  
In fact, it was just that - a diary. _The_ diary, it should be called perhaps, as it had once held the preserved soul of the Dark Lord at only sixteen years of age.  
  
The man's lips curved into a subtle smirk as he shook his head, thumb moving over the gaping hole in the center of the leather - the heart of the diary - pierced by the fang of the beast it had summoned. Positively amazing, how at age sixteen - merely one year away from adulthood - one could be so utterly naïve in the thinking that he was invincible. Lucius smoothly slid over the fact in his mind that, in fact, he was perhaps the naïve one in thinking the plan was foolproof.   
  
Both involved parties had been counting on success, and both had been.. ah.. severely dissapointed. The second, the wraith, had been completely destroyed, and the first - the man - well, needless to say, he had been more than incensed. He was counting on the Dark Lord returning to power as his younger self - one that would possibly need guidance from one more learned in the way of the real world.. guidance, of course, from none other than Lucius.  
  
It had seemed like a plan that would not only show how devoted he was to Voldemort, being the one to initiate this unusual rebirth, but it was a surefire way to get to the top - and perhaps, _perhaps_ rise above Voldemort himself. But it had been thwarted by - who else? - Harry Potter. At the first defeat of the Dark Lord more than.. how long was it? Sixteen years ago? Yes... yes, sixteen years... Well, Lucius had been shaken, yes, but not angry in the least. He was being held like a beast on an extremely short chain while in the service of Lord Voldemort, and that was not how he was accustomed to being. When Tom had been destroyed, however.. he was positively infuriated. But now.. now that the Dark Lord had risen again, and had gained more power than he posessed before.. the Malfoy was, in fact, silently rooting for the Potter boy. If he succeeded in killing Voldemort, then Lucius would be free to snatch up the top spot; perhaps rally up his Death Eaters - _his_ Death Eaters, that sounded absolutely marvelous - and go after Potter.. claiming it to be revenge for their fallen Lord. And finally.. _finally_... he would have the power he sought.  
  
Yes.. Power. That was what he desired. It had perhaps been this fanatical obsession with power that had driven a glass wall between Lucius and his wife, but he hadn't come to realize it until.. when was it? Oh.. two, three years ago now. He never was a trusting individual, not at all, but he had never thought that it would come to him suspecting his own wife of betraying him; not in any part of his thinking.... he gripped the diary even more tightly.  
  
A sharp breeze whistled past him, breaking his train of thought. He had almost.. forgotten that he was in his study.. that he had opened the latch of the dual windows and swung them open to invite some air into the close room. Curtains, black as always, writhed in the wind, seeming to call to him.. beckoning him.  
  
And he obeyed.  
  
Lucius Malfoy found himself gazing with silver eyes into the starless night, as he presented the diary to the heavens in one outstretched hand. The pages, yellowed with extreme age and splattered still with stains of the words it had consumed, began to flap in the wrathful wind, tearing from the binding as they were carried away into the inky night - some in pairs or threes, others solitary - riding on the thermals as if they were stars with a will. The cover was snatched from his hand from the invisible, raging swirls of the atmosphere, joining the rest as the man lowered his arm, curling the diary-hand into a fist, nails prickling his palm.  
  
"Yes, Tom.. time calls for it."


End file.
